Dead Man's Island

Dead Man's Island Page 3

by Carolyn G. Hart

  That af­for­ded me a flic­ker of grim amu­se­ment. Pres­cott Is­land: De­ad Man's Is­land. I lo­oked for­ward to dis­cus­sing no­men­c­la­tu­re with Cha­se.

  "•- to be he­aled by its spe­ci­al pe­ace. Pe­ace and qu­i­et, that's what you will find he­re, Mrs. Col­lins. The ring of the te­lep­ho­ne, the ble­at of the fax mac­hi­ne-no­ne of that in­t­ru­des he­re. Pe­ace and qu­i­et and, of co­ur­se, the ul­ti­ma­te in ser­vi­ce. We ha­ve a staff that can at­tend to every ne­ed, but the ma­in work -trim­ming, gar­de­ning, tho­ro­ugh cle­aning, res­toc­king of sup­pli­es-oc­curs only on­ce each we­ek." His arm swept out, en­com­pas­sing the daz­zling gar­dens. "Every Wed­nes­day a crew ar­ri­ves from Char­les­ton. That ma­kes it pos­sib­le for six days out of se­ven to be de­vo­id of ir­ri­tants. No lawn mo­wers, no le­af blo­wers, no hed­ge trim­mers. In­s­te­ad we ha­ve sa­iling and swim­ming, bo­oks, films, ham­mocks for si­es­tas. It's qu­ite he­aven on earth, Mrs. Col­lins. Even for tho­se of us who ha­ve to work whi­le we're he­re."

  I won­de­red how that des­c­rip­ti­on wo­uld stri­ke Frank Hud­son. And I didn't miss the lit­tle sting in the ta­il of Bur­ton's pa­neg­y­ric.

  The sec­re­tary prat­tled on. "It's a bril­li­ant ar­ran­ge­ment. But, of co­ur­se, Mr. Pres­cott spe­ci­ali­zes in bril­li­an­ce, as I'm su­re you are awa­re, be­ing such an old amie." His oy­s­ter-gray eyes slid to­ward me, cu­ri­o­us and ex­pec­tant.

  I didn't an­te. "It's be­en a num­ber of ye­ars sin­ce Mr. Pres­cott and I ha­ve se­en each ot­her."

  Every word Bur­ton ut­te­red ma­de me fur­t­her reg­ret my de­ci­si­on to co­me he­re. I des­pi­se os­ten­ta­ti­on.

  Now I sho­uld be cle­ar. I do enj­oy lu­xury, but I pre­fer it to be lu­xury wit­hin de­cent bo­unds. Thor-

  stein Veb­len un­der­s­to­od con­s­pi­cu­o­us con­sum­p­ti­on; the 1890s in the Uni­ted Sta­tes was the hey­day of the vul­gar dis­p­lay of ric­hes. Un­til now. One hun­d­red ye­ars la­ter gre­ed still runs ram­pant. To­day's CE­Os re­ce­ive ob­s­ce­nely blo­ated pay­c­hecks even as bu­si­nes­ses and in­dus­t­ri­es scram­b­le to "dow­n­si­ze," a com­for­tab­le eup­he­mism for the who­le­sa­le fi­ring of mid­dle ma­na­ge­ment.

  Prescott Is­land was not my kind of pla­ce. I wo­uld ha­ve pre­fer­red De­ad Man's Is­land, with its fo­ur fa­mi­li­es.

  We had re­ac­hed the gar­dens. The sce­ent of ro­ses swir­led aro­und me, a thick, swe­et, he­ady per­fu­me. And hot-only Ho­us­ton or Cal­cut­ta co­uld be mo­re op­pres­si­ve. I was awash with swe­at.

  "I'm su­re you'd li­ke to ha­ve a chan­ce to rest from yo­ur jo­ur­ney." The sec­re­tary's vo­ice had the jol­ly as­su­ran­ce of a ward nur­se. I it­c­hed to tell him so. "I'll ta­ke you to yo­ur ro­om. Mr. Pres­cott wo­uld li­ke for you to jo­in him in his study in an ho­ur." He glan­ced at his watch and sa­id pre­ci­sely, "That will be at se­ven mi­nu­tes af­ter fi­ve."

  I paused- we had just re­ac­hed the cen­t­ral fo­un­ta­in-and lo­oked at the open-air por­c­hes. The­re we­re three: one a. li­ving area, anot­her ob­vi­o­usly a bre­ak­fast no­ok, and a third, the clo­sest to the swim­ming po­ol, a le­isu­re la­nai with ham­mocks and deck fur­ni­tu­re. All we­re unoc­cu­pi­ed.

  The air was so hot it shim­me­red. I re­cog­ni­zed anot­her scent thre­aded thro­ugh that of the ro­ses, the fa­int, ac­rid stink of in­sec­ti­ci­de. That fi­gu­red. Ot­her­wi­se, this id­y­l­lic ret­re­at wo­uld be unin­ha­bi­tab­le. I

  doubted that even he­avy spra­ying wo­uld pre­vent swarms of mos­qu­ito­es at dusk.

  No in­sects.

  And no pe­op­le.

  "Where is ever­yo­ne?"

  Burton An­d­rews blin­ked, then lo­oked abo­ut and ga­ve a twit­tery la­ugh. "Eh bi­en, it do­es se­em de­ser­ted, do­esn't it? But that's the charm of Pres­cott Is­land, Mrs. Col­lins. So dif­fe­rent from li­fe on the ma­in­land, whe­re it's pe­op­le, pe­op­le ever­y­w­he­re. He­re we are far from the va­le of te­ars that is the world. And"-his vo­ice be­ca­me mo­re mat­ter-of-fact -"it's ter­ribly hot this ti­me of day. Gu­ests are en­co­ura­ged to do what they wish, when they wish. Mrs. Pres­cott pre­si­des over tea every af­ter­no­on in the li­ving ro­om. In­si­de, of co­ur­se. With the air-con­di­ti­oning. I'm su­re so­me of the gu­ests are with her now. Ot­hers may be res­ting, wal­king-" He lo­oked aro­und. "Well, of co­ur­se, the he­at!" He shif­ted my lar­ger ca­se from his left hand to his right. I had my car­ry-on pi­ece. "But Mr. Pres­cott told me to ta­ke you stra­ight to yo­ur ro­om, to gi­ve you a chan­ce to re­lax and -"

  So Cha­se wan­ted me whis­ked to my ro­om. Why? So I wo­uldn't me­et any of my fel­low so­j­o­ur­ners un­til af­ter I'd tal­ked with him? What dif­fe­ren­ce co­uld it ma­ke? I had no idea. I wo­uld ma­ke every ef­fort to fi­gu­re it out, but first things first.

  "Thanks," I sa­id briskly, "but I'd li­ke to me­et my hos­tess-and tea so­unds won­der­ful." I han­ded him my car­ry-on. "Just drop the bags by my ro­om. I'll find my way the­re la­ter."

  "But Mr. Pres­cott - "

  "Oh, I'll see Cha­se in his study. At se­ven mi­nu­tes

  after fi­ve. Now" -I sha­ded my eyes-"t­hat lo­oks li­ke a ma­in do­or. Mer­ci be­a­uco­up for yo­ur help, Mr. An­d­rews." And I star­ted up the path.

  Burton scram­b­led af­ter me. "Mrs. Col­lins, yo­ur ro­om -I'll show you -I can ha­ve ref­res­h­ment bro­ught to you. You ne­edn't ta­ke tea to­day - "

  "I pre­fer to jo­in the ot­hers." I fa­vo­red him with a ste­ely glan­ce and mar­c­hed ahe­ad of him up the steps and in­to the ma­in hall.

  Burton wasn't happy abo­ut it, but he po­in­ted me in the right di­rec­ti­on for the li­ving ro­om and star­ted up the sta­irs with my lug­ga­ge, pa­using every step or so in the va­in ho­pe, I sup­po­se, that I might chan­ge my mind. Wor­t­hi­er men than he ha­ve tri­ed to def­lect me from a cho­sen co­ur­se. Wit­ho­ut, I might add, the slig­h­test bit of suc­cess.

  In the co­ol, sha­dowy en­t­ran­ce hall I pa­used to lo­ok in the mag­ni­fi­cent or­mo­lu mir­ror that ref­lec­ted a Ming va­se, a Ro­din scul­p­tu­re, a Wil­li­am Mer­ritt Cha­se se­as­ca­pe, and the sta­ir­ca­se. I smo­ot­hed back a strand of ha­ir, stra­ig­h­te­ned my tra­vel-crum­p­led aqu­ama­ri­ne smo­oth-we­ave cot­ton dress, and wat­c­hed un­til Bur­ton's pants cuffs and shiny brown cor­do­vans fi­nal­ly di­sap­pe­ared from the mir­ror­v­Then I set out in se­arch of my hos­tess.

  I fa­vor com­for­tab­le sho­es. The­se we­re cre­pe-so­led and si­lent. I re­ac­hed the open do­ub­le do­or­way and had an unin­ter­rup­ted mo­ment to sur­vey the sce­ne and tho­se who had ar­ri­ved on this is­land be­fo­re me.

  That's when I got my first sur­p­ri­se. Bur­ton had in­di­ca­ted that Cha­se's wi­fe pre­si­ded over tea. I dred­ged a na­me from my me­mory. Mi­ran­da Pres­cott.

  But this must be a gran­d­da­ug­h­ter, a slim girl in a wa­ter­co­lor-pas­tel dress as de­li­ca­te and shim­me­ring as sun­light on wa­ter. The ro­und shawl col­lar with an or­gandy bow re­cal­led the ele­gan­ce of long-ago fe­tes or ca­no­es gli­ding on mo­on­lit ca­nals. Ra­ven-black ha­ir cur­led softly to fra­me a he­art-sha­ped fa­ce. She sat be­hind the mag­ni­fi­cent Ge­or­ge III tea ser­vi­ce, po­uring with the ca­re and pre­ci­si­on of a lit­tle girl pla­ying ho­use, her fa­ce ab­sor­bed, her ges­tu­res -

  Light from the chan­de­li­ers ca­ught the fi­re and bril­li­an­ce of the rings on her slen­der left hand.

  Wedding rings.

  I felt a sur­ge of dis­may. She was so yo­ung. Too yo­ung. Dis­may and di­sap­po­in­t­ment. In Cha­se. I wo­uld not ha­ve ex­pec­ted this of him.

  I scan­ned the ot­hers
in the opu­lent ro­om: a hard-fa­ced wo­man with too much ma­ke­up but an aris­toc­ra­tic air; an ex­t­ra­or­di­na­rily han­d­so­me yo­ung man with sul­len, dow­n­tur­ned lips; a chunky mid-for­t­yish fel­low with che­ru­bic che­eks and a ge­ni­al smi­le; a tightly co­iled, bold-fe­atu­red red­he­ad who had A-ty­pe stam­ped all over him; and an ex­qu­isi­tely gro­omed blond man my mot­her wo­uld ha­ve tartly de­emed too smo­oth by half.

  I step­ped in­si­de, cal­ling out a che­ery hel­lo. Ever­yo­ne lo­oked my way, and the men hur­ri­edly got to the­ir fe­et.

  Reporters are ac­cus­to­med to evo­king odd res­pon­ses. It co­mes with the ter­ri­tory. Even so, Mi­ran­da Pres­cott's re­ac­ti­on was out­si­de the norm.

  My yo­ung hos­tess be­ca­me ab­so­lu­tely im­mo­bi­le, her fa­ce ri­gid, her slen­der body ta­ut. She lo­oked ste­eled to con­f­ront enor­mo­us chal­len­ge. But when

  she saw me, her eyes wi­de­ned and her mo­uth cur­ved in­to a so­un­d­less O of sur­p­ri­se.

  That she had ex­pec­ted so­me­one en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent was abun­dantly cle­ar.

  "Mrs. Col­lins?" Her gir­lish vo­ice ro­se in dis­be­li­ef.

  "Yes. But, ple­ase, call me Hen­rie O. Ever­yo­ne do­es. And do sit down, gen­t­le­men."

  But the men, even the sulky, bo­red yo­uth, wa­ited po­li­tely un­til I'd ta­ken a se­at next to my hos­tess. An in­te­res­ting so­ci­al cus­tom, and one that can pro­vi­de en­d­less di­ver­si­on upon dis­cus­si­on. Sho­uld wo­men be tre­ated with de­fe­ren­ce? Or, in fact, is this ac­tu­al­ly a show of res­pect or is it mo­re truly a sub­t­le in­di­ca­tor that men are all-po­wer­ful, cho­osing to ho­nor the "'we­aker" sex?

  Miranda strug­gled for words. "Mrs. Col­lins… Mrs. Col­lins, you are.,. How ni­ce you've ar­ri­ved in ti­me for tea."

  "I'm glad, too." I ac­cep­ted a cup and glan­ced aro­und. This was an enor­mo­usly com­for­tab­le ro­om, the kind of com­fort easily se­cu­red when cost is no qu­es­ti­on. As a yo­ung re­por­ter, I spent so­me ti­me do­ing "ho­use" fe­atu­res. I wo­uld ha­ve des­c­ri­bed this li­ving ro­om as "per­fect for en­ter­ta­ining in a ca­su­al, re­la­xed man­ner."

  But the­re was not­hing re­la­xed abo­ut our hos­tess this af­ter­no­on. As ever­yo­ne re­set­tled, Mi­ran­da of­fe­red me de­lec­tab­le san­d­wic­hes: wa­ter­c­ress, smo­ked sal­mon, egg sa­lad. She ma­na­ged a so­ci­al smi­le, but it did not­hing to hi­de the mi­sery in her vul­ne­rab­le dark blue eyes. The­re was de­fi­ni­tely so­met­hing very wrong he­re. It sho­wed in the slight trem­b­le of tho­se be­a­uti-

  fully ma­ni­cu­red, gir­lish hands, such soft un­worn hands, and in the un­hap­py dro­op of her gen­t­le mo­uth.

  Nervy. That's an old-fas­hi­oned word, but it says it all, a mix­tu­re of fe­ar and un­cer­ta­inty and an­xi­ety.

  I co­uldn't for the li­fe of me tra­ce her une­asi­ness to a so­ur­ce. It was mo­re than my unan­ti­ci­pa­ted ar­ri­val. Cer­ta­inly it co­uldn't be the sur­ro­un­dings. The li­ving ro­om it­self was de­lig­h­t­ful, com­for­tab­le cha­irs and so­fas up­hol­s­te­red in a chintz pat­tern of a va­se with ro­se­buds that was re­pe­ated in the dra­pes. Che­er­ful ro­se-and-whi­te-st­ri­ped silk co­ve­red anot­her so­fa and the com­for­tab­le easy cha­irs. Red vel­vet stra­ight cha­irs ec­ho­ed the crim­son lac­qu­er of a cof­fee tab­le. The ne­ed­le­po­int car­pet fe­atu­red squ­ares of lush ro­ses mi­xed with pe­oni­es. A vi­vid Ma­tis­se gar­den sce­ne hung on one wall, a Dufy be­ach vi­ew on anot­her. The red Bo­he­mi­an glass of the twin chan­de­li­ers spar­k­led li­ke Chi­an­ti in sun­light.

  But nervy the yo­ung wi­fe was. I pa­id clo­se at­ten­ti­on as she ma­de the in­t­ro­duc­ti­ons.

  Va­li­rie St. Vin­cent-"No do­ubt you've se­en her on­s­ta­ge, Mrs. Col­lins. One of Bro­ad­way's gre­at stars."

  Platinum ha­ir fra­med smo­oth, con­t­rol­led fe­atu­res, but it was the col­d­ness of Ms. St. Vin­cent's blue eyes that I no­ti­ced. They bri­efly to­uc­hed me. She ma­de no ef­fort to dis­gu­ise the lo­ok of to­tal, chil­ling di­sin­te­rest, des­pi­te her re­pu­ted the­at­ri­cal abi­li­ti­es.

  I ga­ve Va­le­rie St. Vin­cent a gim­let lo­ok. I don't li­ke to be dis­mis­sed. So, wit­ho­ut a smi­le, I sa­id briskly, "I don't be­li­eve I've had that ple­asu­re." I had, of co­ur­se. Her Lady Mac­beth had be­en an un­for­get­tab­le to­ur de for­ce. "But I ha­ve a ten­dency to re­mem-

  ber the le­ads, not cha­rac­ter ac­tors. Hel­lo, Miss St…" I pa­used. "… Vel­man, is it?"

  If lo­oks co­uld kill -

  I flas­hed the ac­t­ress my most char­ming smi­le.

  Has­kell Lee - "Cha­se's step­son."

  The sulky, gor­ge­o­us yo­un­g­s­ter. Has­kell must be the son of Cha­se's se­cond wi­fe, Car­rie Lee, who had di­ed se­ve­ral ye­ars ago in an ac­ci­dent.

  "Haskell ga­ve up a ten­nis to­ur­na­ment to be with us." Mi­ran­da's lips cur­ved in­to a me­anin­g­less smi­le that her step­son -so yo­ung, yet ol­der than she - didn't bot­her to re­turn. "He works in Cha­se's At­lan­ta of­fi­ce."

  I do­ub­ted that Has­kell was in­teg­ral to the suc­cess of Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons. This han­d­so­me yo­uth (he must ha­ve be­en a very yo­ung child when his mot­her mar­ri­ed Cha­se) lo­oked much too in­do­lent to ex­cel in an­y­t­hing, ex­cept per­haps so­ci­al ten­nis. Ob­vi­o­usly wis­hing he was el­sew­he­re, he spraw­led back aga­inst the chintz cus­hi­ons, tan­ned and well-mus­c­led. He pop­ped a tea san­d­wich in his mo­uth and ma­na­ged a ba­rely ci­vil nod. Then he shif­ted pe­tu­lantly in his se­at and re­ac­hed for his drink in its cut-glass tum­b­ler. No tea for him.

  Miranda hur­ri­ed ahe­ad with her in­t­ro­duc­ti­ons.

  Ro­ger Pres­cott-"C­ha­se's son. I know you and Ro­ger will enj­oy each ot­her. Ro­ger is a wri­ter, too."

  Roger was as un­li­ke his fat­her as pos­sib­le. He was blond, stocky, red-fa­ced, and over­we­ight. But he ga­ve me a spon­ta­ne­o­us, che­er­ful smi­le. "I wri­te po­le­mics. Cri­tics so­me­ti­mes des­c­ri­be them as di­at­ri­bes. How abo­ut you?"

  I grin­ned back at him. "Used to be a re­por­ter. Now I wri­te thril­lers."

  "What's the dif­fe­ren­ce?" It was a sar­do­nic drawl, but not of­fen­si­ve.

  "In my fic­ti­on I ha­ve to to­ne ever­y­t­hing down. I co­uld gi­ve you facts that no one wo­uld ever be­li­eve." I spo­ke lightly eno­ugh, but I wasn't kid­ding.

  "I wo­uld be­li­eve them." Ro­ger Pres­cott le­aned for­ward, his pa­le blue eyes ab­la­ze with sud­den emo­ti­on. "Did you know, Mrs. Col­lins, that if we con­ti­nue our pre­sent en­vi­ron­men­tal po­li­ci­es one-fo­urth of all plant and ani­mal spe­ci­es exis­tent in the mid-eig­h­ti­es will be ex­tinct in twen­ty-fi­ve ye­ars? Did you know that air pol­lu­ti­on from cars costs the Uni­ted Sta­tes forty bil­li­on dol­lars a ye­ar in he­alth ca­re? Did you know that ci­ga­ret­te smo­king kills mo­re pe­op­le every ye­ar than all ot­her di­se­ases, in­c­lu­ding AIDS, yet our go­ver­n­ment con­ti­nu­es to sup­port to­bac­co far­ming? Did you know that - "

  "Now, Ro­ger, let me in­t­ro­du­ce ever­yo­ne." It was sa­id so char­mingly that it had no sting, and Ro­ger ga­ve Mi­ran­da an in­dul­gent smi­le. "Airs. Col­lins, this is Lyle Sted­man."

  Lyle Sted­man - "Lyle's al­so from the At­lan­ta of­fi­ce."

  Stedman ra­di­ated po­wer. The­re was a sen­se of strength ba­rely con­ta­ined des­pi­te his re­la­xed pos­tu­re, a su­perbly mus­c­led arm along the back of the co­uch, fe­et cros­sed. I was con­fi­dent Lyle Sted­man wo­uld re­act qu­ickly to chal­len­ge, physi­cal or men­tal, lie was in­s­tantly no­ti­ce­ab­le, red ha�
�ir so dark and bright it glit­te­red li­ke a sun-sp­las­hed ruby, a hard-bit­ten fa­ce

  with a bold no­se and a blunt chin, a big chest and mus­cu­lar legs, lar­ge strong hands.

  "Your re­pu­ta­ti­on pre­ce­des you, Mrs. Col­lins." Sted­man's vo­ice was de­ep and as­ser­ti­ve. "How many Na­ti­onal Press Club awards do you ha­ve?"

  I was sur­p­ri­sed he knew of me. I jud­ged him to be on the yo­ung si­de of thirty. "One of the fru­its of lon­ge­vity is es­tab­lis­hing a re­pu­ta­ti­on you may not de­ser­ve, Mr. Sted­man."

  He chuc­k­led de­ep in his thro­at and his eyes as­ses­sed me shrewdly. "Well, you've es­tab­lis­hed a hell of one."

  "I'll do my best to li­ve it down."

  "Mrs. Col­lins, this is Tre­vor Dun­na­way." Mi­ran­da was re­ga­ining so­me com­po­su­re. I was glad. The­re is not­hing so pa­in­ful as the open dis­t­ress of the very yo­ung. "Tre­vor is the ge­ne­ral co­un­sel for Cha­se." She lo­oked at him with a to­uch of awe.

 

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